The Villa(21)

Well, the relative quiet.

I pull out my cell to see that I have a missed call and two text messages.

All are from Matt.

I frown.

We’re not technically divorced yet, but since he moved out, we’ve really only communicated through lawyers. The idea of trying to make small talk with a man I once thought was going to be the father of my children is too depressing, so I’ve been happy—well, not exactly happy, but resigned—to simply close down the lines of communication.

And now, just as I’m settling into what is supposed to be a relaxing, rejuvenating getaway, here he is.

I have no intention of calling back, but I do read the texts.

Just checking to make sure you got there okay.

How the fuck does he even know I’m away?

But then I remember. The night before I left, I posted on Instagram. Just an old shot of me and Chess back in high school, our arms around each other, cheeks pressed together, smiles wide.

“Off to Italy for a whole summer with this one! Here’s to over two decades of friendship and all the pasta we can eat.”

It had gotten the usual comments: “Italia! Have fun!” “Is Dex coming back in Book 10?????” “If Dex isn’t back, WE RIOT,” and a new addition, “Holy shit u know Chess Chandler??”

But now, when I open the app, I see there’s a new comment. Matt’s profile picture (updated from the shot of us walking down the aisle at our wedding to him gazing off toward a sunset, aviators shading his eyes) appears next to the words: “Hope you and your ‘bestie’ enjoy yourselves.”

It’s the first time he’s commented on any post of mine in over a year. Honestly, even before the separation, Matt wasn’t big on providing social media validation. Not that this is all that validating. I don’t know if those quotation marks are meant to be sarcastic or if he’s just making sure no one would ever think he’d use the word “bestie” unironically.

I delete the comment, but decide to answer his text.

I did.

He’s not getting a “thanks!” from me or even an emoji.

My phone pings again almost immediately, and I glance down.

Guess you must have finally turned in the next Petal book.

Ah. Of course. This isn’t about checking in on me, this is about checking in on my money.

My throat goes tight, angry tears stinging my eyes, and I can’t believe that I’ve only been here twenty-four hours, and he’s already ruining this for me.

Chess is paying, I type, and then delete it. Why the fuck should I give any kind of answer, any kind of excuse?

As I stand there, wondering if I should reply at all, another text pops up.

I’m not being an asshole. I’m just glad you’re working.

Right, because if I’m working, he’s getting paid.

Except you ARE an asshole, I type back.

An asshole who left his sick wife saying, “This whole thing is just more than I bargained for, Emily.” An asshole who posts pictures of yourself shirtless at the beach in your new town, just in case people weren’t getting the message that you’d finally ditched me and were officially single while also trying to own something I spent years making. You. Are. An. Asshole. TRUST ME.

I stare at the wall of text I’ve typed, and my heartbeat speeds up at the thought of pressing Send. I imagine those words zinging their way across the ocean, punching him right in his smug face as he lies in his bed in Myrtle Beach.

It would feel good, I know. Really good. Fucking great actually.

But no. I’m in Italy. Matt’s not.

And Matt doesn’t get to be in Italy, not even if he’s only in my head.

I delete everything I typed, and, after a pause, I go ahead and delete his messages.

There.

But I still feel unsettled.

Suddenly, I remember that when Chess was giving her big tour, she’d nodded to one of the bedrooms. “They’re using that as kind of a library, I think. Tons of books in there.”

That’s what I’ll do. I’ll find something to read, then change into my swimsuit and spend the rest of the day lounging by the pool, while Matt has to go to his stupid office and do boring accountant shit.

The thought immediately makes me more cheerful, and I practically bound up the stairs until I reach the door Chess pointed out.

It’s still technically a bedroom—there’s a narrow twin bed, shoved up against one wall, with a lace bedspread that’s not quite as nice as the other bedding in the house.

Bookshelves haphazardly line the other long wall. They look like an assortment of flea market finds or estate sale treasures, and while the effect might be disordered and sloppy elsewhere, like most things at Villa Aestas, it somehow comes across as homey and comfortable.

I’ve never been able to resist a bookcase in a rental house—I used to tell Matt that you could always tell who were the real readers, and who were the people who just thought of books as another form of décor, filling the shelves of their beach house or their mountain cabin with curated hardcovers.

And then there are bookcases like this, stuffed with paperbacks left behind by various travelers over the years.

I crouch down, my eyes scanning the titles. There are several books in Italian, some I’ve never heard of, some translations of big English language best sellers, at least half a dozen guidebooks, one with brightly colored Post-it Notes sticking out from half the pages. I spot a couple of thicker books about art history, and then a whole row of Henry James novels.